


Packing Light

by birthsister



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Gen, sterek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-16
Updated: 2013-12-16
Packaged: 2018-01-04 20:33:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1085409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/birthsister/pseuds/birthsister
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post Lunar Eclipse, Stiles reflects on what it means to be strictly human while Derek tends to a minor wound.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Packing Light

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written as a birthday present for a Sterek fan, my beta had a go at it and now I'm posting it for your enjoyment. While I'm not a Sterek shipper in the pure sense of the campaign, I can see the merit in the pairing. This is as far as I'm willing to go with it in my own work, but if you want something a little bit 'more' I suggest you check out the work of Rabid1st. This is just enough Sterek to please the shippers, not enough to turn off the general fans. Hope you enjoy.

 

“I think a 9 mil might do, the .45 is going to be too hard to control, at least until he gets used to it.” Stiles was only paying half attention to half of the conversation, like math class. Except unlike math class, he wasn't going to have a textbook to walk him through what he missed while he was staring out the window and thinking about Lydia Martin's breasts. Chris Argent droned on at the back of his attention span. “What he really needs is a few hours on the range with all of them, and we'll see what he has an aptitude for.”

“What he needs is a normal childhood.” All those syllables came through crisp and clear, like a tuner that had suddenly locked on the channel. He was biologically programmed to respond to that voice, and he did, even as Mr. Argent opened his own mouth to speak.

“Aren't we a little past that, Dad?” Stiles asked. Trying to appear more competent than he felt, he picked up one of the guns from Mr. Argent's desk, slid the bolt back and winced as it caught the web of skin between his thumb and forefinger.

Chris cocked an eyebrow at the Sheriff. “You've been in law enforcement for how many years and you've never taken the boy to the range? Not once?”

The Sheriff watched his son put the gun down and suck the wounded patch of skin like a 6 year old before picking up a handful of flash/bang arrowheads and rotating them in his hand like ben wah balls. He dropped one, scrambled after it, then dropped the other two. They clattered off the nearby furniture as he cringed, covering his face when he thought they would detonate. Chris sighed, rolled his eyes, and bent to retrieve the arrowheads.

“Would you?” The Sheriff asked, bending over to collect the one that had rolled near his foot.

“Good point,” Chris acknowledged as he set them back on his desk, then held up the one the Sheriff handed him for Stiles to examine. “They need velocity and impact before they can detonate. You're pretty safe if they're only rolling around on the carpet. You have to consider how much they get jostled in a quiver.” Argent paused, as though considering his own internal voice. “Have you considered archery?”

Stiles brow dipped in a considering frown. He didn't bother to mention Scott's near miss the last time he had picked up a bow. 

“Look,” the Sheriff raised his voice just enough to bring their attention back around to him, “I appreciate your concern, but he doesn't need weapon training.”

Stiles sighed. “Dad, Team Human here.” He waved at the Sheriff with an awkward twist of his hand. “I don't have claws, or teeth, or freaky supernatural powers. I don't even have a baseball bat anymore. I have been, sometimes literally, up to my neck in this shit for almost a year. A gun couldn't hurt.”

“You know what, son,” the Sheriff said, patting him on the back and angling him for the door, “I haven't known any problem that was ever solved with a gun. I think I can be an authority on that.”

“Hey, I don't want to solve any problems,” Stiles tried to twist around to say goodbye to Mr. Argent, but his father had a firm hold of his neck as he propelled him forward, “I just want to slow them down long enough for me to get a head start.”

Mr. Argent looked vaguely amused. However much he didn't respect the other man's decision, he respected the Sheriff enough to allow him to solve his domestic problems with his own son without another parent's interference. He just hoped they got solved before Stiles became a snack or a lackey for anything attracted to the Nemeton. He started cleaning up his arsenal as the front door clicked shut.

 

“Bite me,” Stiles said, watching Derek pace his apartment, fold clothes into untidy bundles and shove them into a duffel bag.

“What? No, I'm not biting you,” He looked like he was considering it for a moment, then shook his head and went back to packing. “Ask Scott to bite you.”

“He won't. He wouldn't. I can tell, it would just freak him out. But you,” Stiles bobbed and weaved like he was imitating a boxer, “You have this whole, 'indiscriminate violence' thing going on.”

“I couldn't even if I wanted to,” His voice echoed from the bathroom as he packed his shaving kit. For a moment, Stiles wondered why he even _owned_ a shaving kit. “I'm not even an Alpha anymore.”

“Are you sure? Have you tried? I mean, you could have a little tiny bit of Alpha left over.”

“It's kind of like being a little bit pregnant, you either are, or you aren't. There's no 'little bit.' “ Derek paused and looked at him. A skinny kid in baggy jeans and converse with holes in them. He could filet him with his pinky claw, and yet the kid had more heart than some of the werewolves he had grown up with. This boy defied all logic and demanded attention. Derek cocked his head at him.

“Why do you want The Bite? You wouldn't let Peter when he offered it, and I think that situation was probably more dire than the one we're in now.”

Stiles raised his eyebrows at him. “Would _you_ let Peter bite you?” Stiles voice rose an octave as he calculated the absurdity of the statement. “I would have been lucky if he hadn't eaten my kidneys while he was at it.”

Derek bobbed his head to the side in non committal agreement. “If it's any consolation, there is a code. You can't intentionally kill someone you've offered to turn. At least, not until they're turned.”

“Oh yeah, because Peter is such a paragon of self control.” Stiles sat on the couch and ruffled his hands through his hair so that it stood up like a cocks comb.

“You still haven't answered my question,” Derek set the the toiletry bag on the coffee table and pulled a chair over, straddled it and rested his arms along the back.

Stiles looked at Derek, assessing his level of interest and his intentions. Satisfied that he wasn't being set up, he tried to sit back on the couch to get comfortable. Feeling exposed, he rocked forward again and rested his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands.

“I need to protect myself, Derek,” he said. “I haven't slept in like, a week, and I keep thinking about what else could possibly be drawn to that god forsaken slab of wood, and whatever it is, I don't think we're ready for it. It sure as hell isn't going to be a pack of warm fuzzy bunnies. And you're leaving,” he nodded toward the open duffle, “and I'm the only one who can't defend myself.”

Derek waited, patient. He knew Stiles probably hadn't shared any of this with anyone. Not Lydia, who he felt he had to be strong for, not Scott who he had to be competent for, not any of the adults because they were still defining their own places in the new order of things.

“My dad won't even let me learn how to defend myself, and Mr. Argent is smart enough not want to piss off the Sheriff.” Stiles held up his hand where the slide had left a nasty abrasion and sighed, a long, bone aching huff of anxiety. “I probably shouldn't even be allowed around guns. It's like, I'd probably end up testing just how many bullet wounds Scott can take before Mrs. McCall tries to kill me herself.”

Derek was frowning at Stiles hand. “You should put something on that.”

Stiles splayed his hand open and stared at the wound, two perfectly straight lines parallel to his thumb that yesterday had been red and irritated but were now raw and inflamed. One was even starting to look yellow around the edge, a bloom of puss in the center. He wrinkled his nose and pushed his hand away, as though he could get it any greater distance than his own arm.

“And healing. Werewolf healing would be nice. I'm not seeing any bad side to this,” Stiles said, scrunching his whole face up and trying to peer at the infection from a different angle.

Without saying anything, Derek got up, went back in the bathroom, and returned with a first aid kit.

Stiles looked at him, confused. “Why the hell would you even have a first aid kit?”

Derek cracked it open and began searching for the right sized band aid, the ointment, and a cleaning swab. “I picked one up after,” he shrugged, the closest to embarrassed Stiles had ever seen him. “After the fight with Deucalian.”

“But you healed from that. Eventually.” He watched Derek lay everything out on the table in front of him. He set the items next to each other in precise order and motioned impatiently for Stiles to give him the hand. “Wait...you bought one because of Ms. Blake.”

“I thought I smelled something when you came in,” Derek ignored the accusation in the young man's voice. His huge calloused hands were unexpectedly gentle as he took Stiles long, delicate fingers in his palm and began to clean the wound. “But, well, it was you.”

“I have putrefying flesh on me and you think that's just my natural odor?” Stiles voice squeaked with the indignation.

“I was distracted,” was Derek's only defense. He growled as he tossed the swab aside and set Stiles hand on his knee reaching for another.

Stiles felt nervous. Not the usual Derek Hale is going to eat my face nervous, but the Lydia Martin just walked into the room nervous. He rubbed his free hand along his pants leg and realized his palms were sweating.

“I, uh, I can do that myself, you know,” he offered as Derek turned his head away at the pungent odor of the disinfectant.

Derek shook his head and picked up Stile's hand again. “I was the de facto medic in my college dorm. I think I was the only guy who didn't lose it at the sight of blood.” Derek's voice was softer, conversational. Distracted, it lost some of it's edge. “You would think from all the video games you kids play these days blood would be the least of your concerns.” He cleaned it quickly, efficiently, before frowning at it again. “It's your right hand, anyway, it'll be awkward for you.”

“Like this isn't already,” Stiles mumbled under his breath. Out loud he said “College, huh? What did you go to college for?”

Derek didn't answer right away. Stiles was wondering if he was regretting even sharing that much information with him. Derek wasn't a sharer, unless you counted ordering everyone around sharing.

“History,” he finally said, “Hold still.” Before Stiles had a chance to object, Derek had shaken the claws of his right hand free and lanced the wound.

The pain was sharp and unexpected and he suddenly saw floaters in his line of vision. “Oh, oh, that's not good,” he said as he started to list to the side.

Derek slid onto the couch next to him, bolstering him between the arm and his own body. He draped Stiles arm around his own back and threaded the boy's hand under his bicep, holding it steady as he finished cleaning the wound. He quickly dabbed antibiotic ointment and applied a bandage as the field of Stiles' vision grew smaller and smaller. Just as efficiently, he transferred himself back into his chair, scooted forward and bent Stiles at the waist, pushing his head between his knees.

“Head down,” Derek said, patting Stiles back a handful of times before collecting the spent first aid supplies. “Deep breaths,” the he continued, coaching Stiles through the dizziness as he deposited everything in a plastic bag and dropped it down a trash chute.

Stiles lifted his head from where it rested between his knees and watched Derek move around the room. He realized there was a weight to the other man's shoulders, and he had a graceful but burdened way of moving. Obviously, being a wolf hadn't solved any of his problems. Stiles took a deep shuddering breath and tried to sit upright again. When the floaters came back he let himself collapse like a marionette whose strings had been cut, the air slowly groaning out of him.

Derek slid into the chair in front of him again, a cool cloth flopped onto the back of his neck. Stiles could sense Derek's knees nearly touching his own and wondered when the the other man had actually become kind. 'Nice' generally wasn't a Hale family trait.

“This isn't about the damage you did to your hand,” Derek said, peeling the cloth off the back of Stiles' neck and holding it to his forehead, “I think you're exhausted and your body just wasn't up to one more insult.”

Stiles nodded mutely. He felt drunk, and more than a little confused. He braced his hands against Derek's knees, realizing the other man's muscular legs filled out the whole width of the denim without leaving any slack.

“When,” Stiles tried to look up, to look Derek in the face but he couldn't seem to get his eyeline passed Derek's inseam. Huh, he thought, dresses to the left. “When did you get nice?”

“When I didn't have anything left to lose by it,” he answered after a moment. To Stiles' fuzzy brain, it could have been seconds or minutes or even hours between his question and Derek's answer.

Stile's lifted his head and looked at Derek's cool green gaze. There was none of the usual contempt, no rage, just a quiet and passive regard. “Feeling better?”

Stiles nodded. Derek nodded in return, a quick jerk of his head that could have meant any number of things, but which Stiles took as an acknowledgment of his current lucidity. He didn't step away. “I'm leaving soon,” Derek said, after a moment of thought. “You're not suited to this life, but it's yours now. You're going to have to figure out your own way to deal with it. My way, Scott's way, anyone else's isn't going to have the answers _you_ need.” Stiles looked out the long bay of windows, turned back to catch Derek's steady gaze. He felt like there might be a subtext here that he wasn't quite getting.

Satisfied that Stiles wasn't about to keel over, at least right at the moment, Derek got up and put the chair back near the table. “When I come back, I think you'll have grown into it some. I'm kind of looking forward to it, actually.” He smiled warmly, although it didn't quite reach his eyes.

Back in his Jeep, his hand throbbing in time to his heartbeat, Stiles thought about their conversation. He had a path he needed to walk alone. At some level he had always known this. Borrowed power, stolen power, hadn't done anyone any favors. Learning a skill set he didn't have an aptitude for would do him and his friends more harm than good. He felt like there some key piece, some answer he wasn't quite grasping. He had his own journey, and oddly enough, Derek Hale was looking forward to watching where it took him. The knowledge gave him a new found confidence that he would find it when he needed it.

He threw the Jeep into gear, cued up the radio and said in a loud voice to no one in particular, “We don' need no stinkin' guns!” as he pulled into traffic and gunned it for home.


End file.
